Someone to Understand Me
by StarryGazer
Summary: Harry gets swept up in a twister a là Wizard of Oz, and finds himself in Kansas. He and Clark find out they have a lot in common, being young and heroic. They discuss the unattainable men in thier lives.


**TITLE**: Someone to Understand Me  
**RATING**: R  
**PAIRING**: Clex and Snarry, but this is mostly Clark Kent/Harry Potter. And yeah, I know I'm weird.  
**DISCLAIMER**: Belongs to J.K. Rowling, the makers of Smallville, etc.  
**BETAS**: Gemsbok, and ShadowPhoenix, and rose etta did her best to help me stay IC with the Smallville aspects. Thanks so much, guys!  
**NOTES**: This is a humorous one-shot crossover between Smallville and Harry Potter. Anyway, I've never done any Smallville before, so please be kind! I'm nervous posting this, because I really think it isn't my best work, but oh, well. Set somewhere in Season Three of Smallville, and post OotP in HP, I know that would make the timelines really screwy, but hey, it's FICTION.  
**SUMMARY**: Harry gets swept up in a twister a là Wizard of Oz, and finds himself _in _Kansas. He and Clark find out they have a lot in common. Clark and Harry drink alcoholic water and talk about how difficult it is to be young and heroic. They discuss the unattainable men of their dreams, and try to assure one another that said men are not so far out of reach. Then they _really _reassure one another.

**Someone to Understand Me **

Harry wheeled above the match, skimming above the stands, eyes straining as they searched out that ever-elusive _one little thing _that could make him happy. And no, it wasn't the Snitch. There—third person from the left in the Slytherin stands, perched elegantly and deliciously and _scornfully _watching Harry zoom past.

Harry's hormones had kicked into high gear over the summer, and for some reason they'd settled on the most inappropriate person in _existence. _Severus Snape. That utter bastard. Harry couldn't believe it—and he couldn't fight it, either. It seemed his whole fucking life was a Machiavellian plot to see just how miserable Harry could possibly get. Dead parents? By the age of two. Substitute family as horrendous as anything out of a Roald Dahl story? Check. Freakish, undead megalomaniac out to kill him or give it the boy scouts' best try at every turn? Yup. Absolutely. Now, how about fantasies regarding a certain hook-nosed professor who hates his very guts waking him up with wet sheets? Sure. Why the hell not? _After all_, Harry thought, _What's wrong with visions of Snape slamming you down on his desk and playing stirring rod and cauldron? If there is a God, please kill me now. _

Something gold whizzed past Harry's ear, and he shifted directions without thinking about it. He glanced back to see if Snape was watching, but Snape only had eyes for _Malfoy, _that stupid, inbred, bloody rich wanker. _And worthless Seeker, too_, Harry mused as he chased the Snitch up, and up, on level with some of Scotland's lower clouds. Malfoy wasn't even _near _him. It was like he wasn't even _trying_. Harry smirked in triumph as his fingers closed round the metal object.

Suddenly, there was a roaring in his ears, and he looked frantically about. Below, he got a glimpse of Snape's pale face, his mouth moving and wand raised, before everything spun, and his broom was twisted and snapped loose from under him. He couldn't see, had nothing to grab onto, and for some reason, he wasn't falling. He'd been swept into some kind of vortex, and was soon tumbling head over heels inside the rushing, nearly solid physical force of air.

Harry couldn't see Snape anymore, couldn't see anyone, anything, and he opened his mouth to scream, knowing it would be lost to the howling wind.

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"Need some more help over here, Clark," Jonathan told his son with no little annoyance. "This hay isn't going to move itself, you know."

Clark gritted his teeth and grabbed another bundle. He could have had the whole thing done in less than five minutes, but _nooo-oooo_. Have to be careful the neighbors didn't see anything suspicious. _What _frigging neighbors? They were in the middle of corn-up-the-ass _no_where, and no one was living next door anymore! Just because someone had looked at Lana's old house—a _week _ago—his mom and dad had to get all 'Homeland Security' on him. As he dropped the bundle, Clark thought he heard something odd. "Did you hear that, Dad?" he turned to his father, eyes wide. "It sounded like somebody screaming!"

His father let out a deep, concerned sigh. "Clark. There aren't any neighbors for miles." Something inside Clark wanted to jump up and down and shout I KNOW THAT, but he held his peace. "And I didn't hear anything. I realize things have been quiet around here lately, and it's a bit unusual. But you don't have to go making problems where there aren't any. Really, Clark. It's good that you care so much about people, but you need to remember that you can't save everyone. Learn to relax, would you?"

Martha stepped out of the house, her eyes anxious. "Clark? Honey? There was just word on the radio that a freak windstorm or something's come up. They suggested everyone take shelter. Apparently, it's right near here."

Clark's head whipped around, and by using his x-ray vision, he went right through the fields and trees to where a low storm—filled with debris and branches and _Oh, my God, is that a **person**?_—was barrelling towards them.

"It's a twister. A small one, but fast. You guys get in the cellar," Clark told his parents. "I'll be right back."

"_Clark_," his father said in the tone he reserved for old-fashioned lectures, "You can't—"

"_Dad_," Clark responded, just as firmly. "There's someone in there. Someone's in trouble. I have to help." Without waiting for his father's response, he tore off through the field at super speed. At least a tornado—and even a person _in _a tornado—was no big deal. He'd done it before.

When he reached the tornado, he looked through it again to find the person—a small frame, way up high. He'd _hoped _he'd just be able to reach in and snatch them out, but it looked like no such luck. Taking a deep breath, he plunged inside and let the air carry him away. After all, it wasn't like anything in there could hurt him, unless it had swept up a few meteorites as well. Crap. He really wished he'd thought about that before. A tree trunk glanced off his shoulder, and he shrugged it off, annoyed. Where the hell was the person?

There. Still up high. Jesus, it was just a kid. A boy, a handful of years younger than himself, from what he could tell from that tumbling, semi-conscious form. He stretched out a hand, but couldn't reach. He began stepping on whirling debris, pushing himself off and up, hand reaching out. Finally, he could grab hold of the kid's sleeve. He pulled down, wrapping himself around the poor, beat-up child, sheltering him from the storm, waiting for it to wear itself out.

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Harry gasped when he felt strong arms encircle him, a rather larger body wrapping itself around him. Harry was unused to being touched, and even more so when it came to being touched protectively. He'd gotten a clout or two from his uncle on occasion, but that was about it. This was really different from that. The arms around him were like _steel;_ they were strong and sure and it was really comforting, and just a little…_arousing? _What the _hell_? Weren't things complicated _enough_?

Harry tried to twist around so that he could see who was holding him, but the arms wouldn't _move, _wouldn't even _shift. _It was like they weren't made of flesh at all, but marble or something. He looked down, seeing the straining muscle and dark hair below the rolled up flannel cuff. A man's arms. Definitely male. And hard as a rock—which was how Harry was feeling, too.

Between the thin air rushing past his face and the titan's arms squeezing the same from his lungs, Harry was finding it hard to breathe. He tried to call out, but found he hadn't the breath. Squirming ineffectually, Harry's eyes rolled back in his head, and everything went dark.

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Clark realized just a second too late that the boy in his arms was having problems. He loosened his grip a little, and found himself suddenly stumbling on the ground—the whirlwind was losing power. He forced his way free from the gale, cradling the slender youth in his arms.

When the raging vortex had finally passed them over completely, Clark dropped to his knees and set the dark haired boy on the ground. He watched the slim frame, prone on the dirt, unmoving. He wasn't breathing. _Shit, shit, shit!_ Why, oh _why _couldn't he do the simple things, like _thinking _before jumping into these situations? Pulling the boy's head back, Clark leaned over and began giving him mouth to mouth.

"Breathe, kid. Breathe," he grunted, starting CPR, careful—this time—about how much pressure he was applying. "Jeez, don't tell me I saved you from the tornado just to crush you to death!" He leaned forward again.

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When Harry opened his eyes, lungs convulsing desperately, the first thing he saw was a handsome—albeit blurry—young man's face hovering above him, full lips slightly parted. Well. It was something of an improvement over Snape, at any rate. Wasn't it? On the other hand, if Hogwarts had taught him anything, it was that looks were often deceiving. After all, Professor Lockhart had been considered a walking dream by most women, and the man was a complete twit.

Coughing a little, he blinked as the older boy backed off. "Oh, good. You—you're breathing," the young man stuttered, sounding a little surprised. "Just relax, now. You're going to be all right." Harry was helped into a sitting position, while the boy rubbed gentle circles on his back. _Oh, wow. _

Harry looked up into thickly-fringed eyes. "What—what happened?" he choked out, leaning on this muscled, apparently flying Adonis.

"You—got caught in a twister," the boy told him earnestly. "It…dropped you here? I found you." The fact that it sort of sounded more like a question than a statement was not lost on Harry, who looked at the older teen sharply.

His vision was poor without his glasses, but Harry was pretty sure he had never seen this boy before. _Pretty sure? Fuck, how many Greek Gods are walking around Hogwarts at any given time, anyway? _"Where…where's your broom?" he asked, trying to read the boy's face.

"Broom? Kid, I think you might have hit your head in there. Here, I'm going to get you to the hospital." He lightly lifted Harry off the ground, and the Boy Who Lived to Just Maybe Learn How to Flirt a Bit wrapped his arms around that strong neck and shoulders.

"What year are you in?" Harry asked suspiciously, as the boy began carrying him away.

The boy's dazzling smile in response almost obscured his answer. "I'm a junior at Smallville High. You?"

"You're a what? Where? I'm…I'm a sixth year," Harry said, wondering if he had indeed hit his head during the freak windstorm. "At Hogwarts."

"_Hogwarts_?" the boy laughed. "What a funny name. That's a pretty cool accent you have, by the way. Are you English? And sixth year…what does that mean, exactly? You can't be in sixth _grade_, so I assume you mean something else."

Harry was becoming increasingly uneasy. Where was the school? Where was Dumbledore? Who was this boy? "I…I'm not sure what the equivalent is," he said honestly, although his mind was mostly elsewhere. _What's going on? What happened? _"Where am I?"

"You're in Smallville. Kansas, if that helps. I don't know how hard you hit your head. You may have lost a bit of memory—that happens sometimes. It'll be all right, though. I promise." He smiled reassuringly, but Harry wasn't reassured at all.

"I'm in _Kansas? _Oh, my God! What am I supposed to do, tap my heels together and go, 'There's no place like home!?' Put me down."

"What?"

"Put me down! Where are my glasses? What happened to my broom? _Where's my wand?_"

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The kid was really kicking and struggling now, and Clark worried that he'd injure himself further, so he set him deftly on his feet. The English youth immediately began to run back towards where they'd landed, shoving stalks of corn out of his way as he searched for something.

"Look, kid…I don't know what you lost, but you really need to see a doctor. Come on, we can come back and look for whatever it is later." He grabbed hold of the back of the teen's shirt and hauled him up, but the kid promptly slipped out of it and ran right back, falling on his knees to scrabble in the dirt. Looking more closely, Clark could see what had happened—the shirt was easily five sizes too big. "Kid. Kid! What are you _doing_? Come on, we have to leave. _Now._"

"Fuck you, Dorothy," was the muttered response, and Clark was just about to give up and carry the kid away when he suddenly cried out in relief. "My wand! Thank _Merlin_." He turned, smiling, and Clark was taken aback from the change in his face; instead of a moody, scowling, skinny little thing, he looked positively radiant, large eyes gleaming with victory. He was gazing down at a piece of wood like it was made of gold or something.

"Great. You got your…doodad. Now can we get going?"

The boy's head jerked up to stare at him. "I don't need to go to the hospital," he told Clark firmly. "I just need to use a telephone. Do you have a telephone?"

Clark frowned. "Not with me, but we have one back at the house. If you'll come with me, we can call your parents."

The kid flinched. "I don't have any parents," he admitted, falling into step beside Clark, who was careful to walk slowly, watching the boy for any sign of injury or fainting. "They're dead. I meant that I have to call my school."

"Ah." Clark felt a surge of sympathy. "Well, we can call your guardian or whatever, too," he offered. "I'm sure _someone's _worried about you."

The boy gave him a rather bitter smile. "Wanna bet? My guardian's dead, too. Er. I live with my aunt and uncle, but I don't think they'd much care if I got caught by a twister and landed in Oz, and _trust me_, I wouldn't run about crying 'Auntie Petunia!' and clicking my heels and saying, 'There's no place like home!' They hate me. I just need to let the Headmaster and my friends know where I am."

Clark held his hands up defensively. "Ooooh-kay. We'll call whoever you want." Still, he knew it was important to keep the kid talking. If he had a head injury, he'd need to stay lucid and awake, and Clark would need to know right away if he began to get woozy. "So. Uh. What's your name?" he asked brightly.

"Er…Harry. Potter. I'm sorry. I…didn't mean to go off on you, or anything." He was a bit red, looking at his feet.

"No problem. I'm Clark. Clark Kent. That's a nifty red cape you've got. What's it for?"

The boy turned a bit red, but his eyes widened as though he were frightened. "Um. An English sport," he said. "We all wear cloaks like this in Qui—for that sport."

"Oh," Clark replied. "Is it like rugby or something?"

"Yeah…something like that."

"Anyway, it's nice to meet you, even if it was kind of in a terrible way and all."

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Harry shrugged. "Wasn't _that _bad," he muttered, and Clark's eyes bugged out. Harry blushed, realizing he'd basically just called a ride on the back of a twister no big deal. But compared to being chased by a giant snake, watching a dead man come back to life, or seeing the person he loved most being hit with _Avada Kedavra, _it really hadn't been that bad. He tried to change the subject. "You…I wasn't wearing glasses when you found me, was I?"

Clark shook his head helplessly. "Sorry."

Harry sighed. "Thought not. I'll have to get another pair."

Harry trudged along behind 'Clark'—what a swotty name for such a hot bloke—seemingly for miles. Clark didn't get at all tired, and at one point started _whistling. _Harry was battered and tired and thirsty, and he couldn't help gaping. "Are you for _real_?" he asked, and felt badly when Clark blushed. "Sorry," he added. "It's just that…um. The whole whistling thing…it's so…upbeat. Are you always this upbeat?"

The poor guy blushed even brighter. "No," he said defensively. "I'm just…glad you're all right. And, you know, I'm counting my blessings. I mean, I have a lot to be grateful for right now—my dad's recovering from a heart attack which could have killed him, my best friend was in a plane crash that we thought _did _kill him, but he managed to get rescued…I don't know. You're alive. You ought to be grateful too, you know?"

Harry glared at him. "Fat lot you know about it," he muttered.

The older boy sighed quietly. "I understand that things can be rough," he said quietly.

Harry looked over at him, suddenly feeling strangely ashamed. Here he was, pissing and moaning about how rough life was to a guy who'd just saved his life. To a guy that had…_pulled him out of a tornado and given him mouth to mouth. _And just _how _had he managed to get into the tornado, if he was a Muggle? There was a sticky question. How do you ask someone whether they're a Muggle when you don't know whether they're a Muggle? And did they even _call _them Muggles in America? This would require tact. Subtlety. Right.

"So…" he said. "I guess I _should _be acting a little more grateful, huh? Thanks for saving my life and all. Heh. My hero." _Foot in mouth, Potter, foot in mouth! Don't go down that avenue, you jackass, _he told himself, swallowing.

Clark's head jerked up. "Oh. Um, no problem," he replied, shrugging a little. "Just don't go trying to kiss me over it or anything." He grinned as if to say it was all in good fun.

"Really?" asked a voice Harry was horrified to recognize as his own. "Too bad, because you're really rather handsome. Um. Ah." About then, his brain caught up with him and forced his mouth shut. He couldn't _believe _he'd just said that. True, he'd been _thinking _it, but he hadn't meant for it to slip out!

Clark looked absolutely astounded, and he was bright pink. Harry was certain his face was the same, and he looked away in a panic, dimly noticing that the other boy had jerked his head in another direction, as well.

"Oh. God. Sorry," Harry croaked. He wanted to play it off as a joke, but didn't want to risk opening his mouth again.

"It's. All right. Not—not that a big deal. Or anything," Clark stuttered, his eyes wide and _definitely _avoiding looking at Harry. "I'm. Ah. I d—don't mind guys that are—you know. I mean, it's not like I've never thought about what it would be like to kiss a guy, it's just—oh. Maybe I'll just…be quiet now." He looked desperately uncomfortable and wiped his palms on his jeans.

They walked on in silence for a long while, avoiding each other's eyes. Soon, Harry made out a farm in the distance. "Is this where you live?" Harry asked.

"Yeah," Clark replied. "Harry, wait. Um. About that…that kissing thing?"

For one weird, hopeful second, Harry thought the American might have changed his mind. What should he say if Clark wanted to try it? Harry nodded nervously.

"Um. Could you not mention it around my dad? It's just that…well. You know. He's kind of old fashioned, and he'd _really _be upset if he heard a guy talking about kissing another guy. And he—he doesn't know, you know."

"Doesn't know what? That sometimes men kiss other men? Did that tornado drop me off in the dark ages or something?"

Clark forced a laugh. "Well, it _is _Smallville. Everything's kind of…I don't know. My dad's just a real big stickler for morals, family values, that kind of thing, that's all. He voted for Bush." Harry shuddered. "No, what I _meant _was, Dad doesn't know…ah. That I ever wanted to try kissing a guy. I've kind of never brought it up."

Harry gave him a disappointed half smile. "So…he'd beat you with a bible?"

This time, Clark really did laugh. "I don't think so. He'd just…blame someone else. He's always convinced I'm being 'led astray.' Stuff like that. He worries about me, and after his heart attack…" He trailed off, looking sheepish.

"I get it," Harry nodded. "Your friends get you into trouble or something?" he asked a little while later, when the silence stretched too thin.

"No, Dad's just sure they will. Um. Lex in particular. He thinks Lex is…untrustworthy or something, despite the fact that he's always tried to help me out and all."

"Why does your dad dislike him, then?" Harry questioned, as they rounded the barn.

"Oh, his dad isn't a real nice guy, for one thing." Harry looked puzzled—blaming someone for his parents certainly wasn't fair—and Clark must have seen, because he hurried to continue. "And Lex is rich, powerful, clever, sexy…you know."

"Sexy?" Harry's eyebrows disappeared under his bangs.

Clark went five shades of red. "Did I say sexy? I meant…I meant that _some _people think he's sexy. So I've heard."

"Yeah, people like _you_," Harry pointed out with glee.

Clark's eyes went round and pleading. "_Please _don't tell my dad; he already doesn't like Lex. Look, _please_? I mean, c'mon, I saved your life!"

Harry's eyes narrowed in thought. "Well, how about you tell me exactly how you did that, and I'll let the whole thing drop?"

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Clark stared at his feet, his hand on the back door. He _couldn't _open it—not until he knew for sure that Harry wouldn't tell anyone. After all, there were secrets, and then there were _secrets_, and some shouldn't be told to _anyone_. Soooo…which would be worse: Harry finding out that Clark was an alien or Clark's dad finding out he might be _just possibly not really well all right probably please don't kill me_ gay?

He took a deep breath. "Harry…I can't tell you. I—I _can't_. It's really complicated, and my parents would _kill _me." He swallowed, shaking his head. "You don't—I just—It's just really hard. I don't know how to explain why, but you have to believe me—I really can't tell you."

Harry looked a bit miffed, but after staring at Clark for a few minutes, his eyes seemed to soften a little. "Okay. Look, I'm not going to tell anyone anything that you don't want other people to hear—trust me, I know everything there is to know about keeping secrets. You don't have to tell me, but…look, I don't know if I can trust you, either. The fact that you…" he trailed off, looking furtively around, "Er—that you did what you did—and I _know _what you did, or at least some of it—kind of gives me something to worry about. I'm not—I don't—I have a lot of problems right now, and I don't know who to trust. I really _like _you, and I _want _to trust you, but I have to be careful.

"You haven't hurt me…_yet,_ but that doesn't mean you _won't. _Believe me, I've been there before. Just because someone's nice to you doesn't mean anything. I just want you to know that if you're on the side of You Know Who, you're on the wrong side. And if you try anything, I'll stop you. I won't go down without a fight." He looked away, his eyes clouded. "I owe them that much."

Clark blinked. That was a lot to sort through, and the look on Harry's face said that right now he wasn't open to questions. Clark felt a twinge of something—empathy, maybe—as he looked at the young, vulnerable face. "I'm sorry," Clark said sincerely. "I wish I could tell you everything. I wish there wasn't even anything to tell. But the truth is; I just can't. It's not just about me, Harry. It's about my parents too. I have to protect them."

Harry blinked and looked up at him, those green eyes suddenly raw. "I understand," he started to say in a scratchy voice, but then the back door suddenly swung open, and Clark's mother looked out at them.

"Oh, _Clark_! There you are. I was really starting to get worried!" she tried to give Harry a bit of a smile, but her forehead was still showing signs of strain. "Who's this?"

Clark took a deep breath. "Mom, this is Harry. He…um. May have hit his head during the windstorm," he said, not wanting to worry her with the fact that Harry knew more than he should. "He's from England." He licked his lips nervously, not looking at the boy.

"Hit his head? Should we take him to the hospital?" She opened the screen door as well, coming out to get a good look at Harry, who suddenly seemed a little shy, ducking his head a bit. Clark's mom, having tons of (albeit unusual) experience with first aid, gently ran her fingers through the boy's hair, checking for lumps, and then looked at his eyes. "We ought to get a flashlight so I can see if they dilate," she muttered, pushing Harry's bangs out of his face. "Oh, goodness! Looks like this wouldn't be the first time you've hit your head."

Harry's hand clapped over his forehead, covering the jagged scar, his face suddenly pale. "I got it in the car crash when my parents died," he said in a rush.

Clark's mom got that look she did whenever she saw a stray puppy or a hard luck story. There was a reason Clark had ended up with an overly compassionate streak. "Oh. I'm so sorry to hear that. Here, why don't the two of you come inside so I can get a better look at you?"

Harry was pulled indoors and given something of an examination by Clark's mom, who fussed and fawned over him until Clark thought Harry would _explode _with embarrassment. "Mom…I think he's okay," Clark interjected; trying not to show that _he _was starting to get a little embarrassed, too. His mom had practically pinched Harry's cheeks and called him Snugglebunny. Sometimes she was just too much of a mom, and it was kind of uncool. She pulled Clark into the other room a ways.

"But he's so _thin_," Clark's mom protested. "Don't they have Child Welfare in England? I'm just sure it's not right," she added to him in a low voice. "I think he's been mistreated."

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"I'm _fine,_" Harry announced firmly, following them into the room and pushing his non-existent glasses up his nose before realizing that they weren't even there. He sighed. "I'm a little bruised, but I eat plenty, and all I need is a telephone. I promise. Some of us just _grow _faster than others," he added when the woman still looked at him doubtfully. He shot a look at Strapping Stud Farmboy, and resisted rolling his eyes. **_Some _**_of us didn't get locked in closets and fed table scraps until we were eleven, _he added in the privacy of his head.

A sturdy blond man rounded the corner, wiping oily hands on a rag. "I think I've got the transmission fixed…" he began, but stopped when he saw Harry. "Uh, hello. I don't think we've been introduced."

"Dad!" Clark said, sounding just a little…desperate? "Were you working on the truck again? During…the storm?"

"Well, Clark, I have to stay busy," his father replied, and Harry could almost _see _the nervous energy that the man had built up in his muscles. This was not a 'hand me another beer' type of father. This was a guy that liked to keep moving.

Clark nodded, looking just a little bit hurt that his father hadn't worried as much as his mother had. "This is Harry. He's from England. He got caught in the storm, but he's okay now."

"Oh? Well, glad you're all right. Jonathan Kent," he said, shaking Harry's hand very firmly. "Nice to meet you, Harry. You sure you're all right?"

"_Yes_, sir," Harry told him in his most confident voice. "I promise I don't need a doctor. I just need to call my school. I got…separated from everyone, and I need to let them know I'm all right."

Jonathan gave him a friendly smile. "Sure thing. I don't like doctors that much, myself," he told Harry, and Harry smiled a slightly painful smile. He wondered if the man really was a bigot, or if Clark just didn't know his father very well. He seemed awfully nice. Jonathan turned to his wife. "Dinner almost ready? Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Well, the table hasn't been set, and I'd appreciate it if someone would make some tea." she smiled as Clark and Jonathan headed into the kitchen. Turning to Harry, she gave one more questioning look. "You know, it might be best if a doctor just _looked _at you."

"No, thank you," he responded firmly.

"Why are all boys this stubborn? All right," she told him, shaking her head. "There's a telephone in the hall. Here, let me write down our number and address for you, and you can give it to whoever it is that will come to pick you up. Are you _sure _you don't want to see a doctor?"

Harry nodded firmly. "I'm sure. Thank you, Mrs. Kent."

"Please, call me Martha."

Harry flushed a little. Good lord, they were all so _nice._ And Martha Kent, with her red hair and ready smile reminded him powerfully of pictures he'd seen of his own mother.He stared at the smiling woman, painfully jealous of Clark and his happy home.Except for Sirius, he didn't know _any _adults that let him call them by their first name. "Er. Right. Thank you, Martha." He ran to use the phone. Looking over his shoulder to make certain that Mrs…_Martha _had gone into the kitchen, and everyone was talking and not listening in, he began to dial. _Please pick up, please pick up, please, please, please…_ No answer at the Weasley's, and they were the only Wizarding family who had a phone. He didn't know Hermione's parents' number. Sighing, he set the receiver back down with a 'clunk.' What was he supposed to do?

There was only one possibility. Groaning unhappily, he picked the phone up again. This time it only rang once before his Aunt impatiently snapped, "Dursley residence."

"Um. Hi. It's Harry," he said. "Don't hang up! You have to get in touch with Dumbledore and the rest of them for me or…or we're all in big trouble," he rushed out.

"What do you want?" she growled, her voice tight with anger and fear. "How dare you call us from wherever you are, you little—little _freak_!"

Harry winced, glad that everyone was in the kitchen. He steeled himself to finish the conversation. "Look, I'm in Kansas. That's in America. I _don't know how I got here. _You have to tell the others what happened. I don't know how to get back—and yes, I know you don't care, but you're the only one I know how to get in touch with, and Dumbledore is probably looking for me. I can't use magic outside of school, and I don't know any spells that would help anyway. But I do have my wand, and I'm sure everyone is looking for me. _Everyone. _You know what that means, don't you? And you know Lupin and Mr. Weasley and Tonks and all of them will have something to say if they find out you knew where I was and didn't tell them."

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Clark set the napkins on the table, nodding at whatever his mother said, ears straining to catch Harry's conversation. He wasn't going to tell his parents that Harry suspected something—not yet. After all, he was just a kid, and he'd seemed like he understood, or would at least _like _to understand.

"_What do you want? How dare you call us from wherever you are, you little—little **freak**_!"

Clark held back a gasp. That was…that was pretty harsh. What a terrible thing to call someone.

He tuned back in to hear, "_I **don't know how I got here**. You have to tell the others what happened. I don't know how to get back—and yes, I know you don't care, but you're the only one I know how to get in touch with…_" He didn't know how he got here? Well…he _had _hit his head, then. He should've taken Harry straight to the hospital. "_I can't use magic outside of school, and I don't know any spells that would help anyway. But I do have my wand, and I'm sure everyone is looking for me._" Magic? He couldn't use _magic _outside of _school?_ Clark's heart began to speed up as he pondered the implications.

Turning his attention back to the conversation, Clark concentrated on the response of the woman Harry called. "_Fine. Fine—you abnormal—you—nasty little deviant. I'll tell them—**if **I can. If they don't come and get you, then it isn't my fault—**or **my problem. And I personally don't care if you **never **come back."_

The phone on the other end slammed down so hard that Clark flinched. He snuck a quick glance into the hall. Harry was still standing there, his body frozen.

_"_'Bye, Aunt Petunia_," _he heard the boy murmur a little sadly into the phone.

Trying not to wince, Clark approached the English boy. "Hey," he said softly. "Make your call?"

Harry gently dropped the receiver back on the cradle. "Yeah," he confirmed, not looking Clark in the eyes.

"Um. That's good. Dinner's ready. My mom makes the world's best pork chops, and I'm really interested in what England's like. Come on, I want to hear all about it. Do you play sports? Lacross or rugby or something?" Putting an arm around Harry's shoulders, he led the boy into the kitchen.

Clark was surprised when Harry leaned into him, and wondered if he should push the boy away. After all, what would his father say? He looked down, and saw wide, unseeing green eyes in a blank, pale face. Well, if his father didn't like it, that was just tough. Harry needed someone to lean on. Anyone could see that.

If his dad _did _notice, he didn't say anything, and Clark sat beside Harry, chatting casually. Clark's mom did even more to bring the boy out of himself, asking him about friends, hobbies, and girls. True to her sweet and unthreatening way of getting to know people, Martha Kent soon had Harry telling her all sorts of interesting things.

"Actually, I still have a couple of years of school. I'm sixteen," he informed her between bites of scalloped potatoes.

"You're kidding!" Clark exclaimed, grinning. "I thought you were like, _twelve _or something! You're only a year younger than I am."

Harry smiled back, but it seemed more than a little sarcastic. "Thanks a heap. I can't help it if I haven't had any growth spurts recently."

Clark laughed, and his mother gave him a _look_—the kind that said he needed to be nicer to their guest. "Sorry," he told the boy.

"That's true, though," his father remarked as he was cutting a piece of pork chop. "I remember when I was fifteen, and I think I was the skinniest, shortest guy in the class. But boy, after that summer! I think I must have grown three feet."

His mom smiled affectionately, nodding a bit. "I bet you ate like you had a bottomless pit for a stomach, too. I feel sorry for your mother. I know how it is with growing boys! No doubt every growth spurt for _you _meant a ton of work in the kitchen for _her_."

"Yeah, I think there was one afternoon when I ate three sandwiches and an entire watermelon by myself, along with a good dozen cookies for dessert. I think she was surprised I didn't explode!"

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Harry watched in envy as this loving, easygoing family bantered back and forth. These people weren't _Americans;_ Americans were flashy and loud and had sex all the time. Or so the telly had led him to believe, anyway.

"Speaking of dessert," Martha said, beaming and rising from the table. _Say 'apple pie,' come on, it's just **got **to be apple pie, _Harry thought, trying to fight back a smile. "I've got fresh strawberries, and even fresher cream." _Damn. Who ever heard of 'American as strawberries and cream?' Oh well. _"Delicious, and _healthy_," Martha added, scooping the sliced berries into bowls for each of them.

"Honey, you don't have to torture the boys just because the doctor wants me to eat right," Jonathan grumbled. "Besides, it's not like—"

"Hey, guys?" Clark broke in, looking slightly pink. "Would you mind if Harry and I took these out to the barn? Then you could have your…discussion without us underfoot, and I could show Harry the loft."

Martha smiled broadly. "Sure, Clark." She winked at Harry as Clark rinsed off his dinner plate. "Teenaged boys need lots of privacy, we understand," she whispered to him.

"Mo-om," Clark groaned.

"Sorry, sorry!" Martha still smiled, and gave Clark a kiss on the cheek as he headed out the door. "I'll let you guys know if we get any calls for Harry. And if you're going to fall asleep up there, don't be up too late! Your dad needs help with a lot of things tomorrow."

"Yeah, Mom. I know. Thanks." Clark gave her a slightly strained, teenager-with-much-too-parental-appendages-attached sort of smile.

Harry was amazed by the barn. "And you can _sleep _up here? And nobody bothers you?" he asked, flopping down on the couch. "Man, this is _great_."

Clark grinned, looking more confident now that he knew that his parents hadn't completely blown his 'cool-factor' with Harry. "Well, yeah. Within reason, anyway."

"Blimey, I don't even have my own _room_. Well, I do at home, but it's nothing like this. And at school, I have to share with four other guys. It's wicked that you have a place you can relax in, away from everyone."

Clark shrugged as though it wasn't any big deal, but Harry could clearly see he was pleased. "Well…I'm kind of different. I have a lot of stuff in my life, and I need a lot of time to myself."

Harry scoffed at this. "Hey, I could use the same thing, trust me. But god forbid anyone should notice."

"You sleep in the same room with four other guys?" he asked, sitting awkwardly beside the teen. "Is one of them your…" he swallowed. "You know. Your boyfriend?"

Harry thought this over, and laughed a little. "No. _No_. Definitely not. Um. I've never mentioned that to any of them, and…we don't talk about it. It's just your typical boarding school. I mean; I'm sure _some _of the guys are…like that, but no one ever mentioned it to _me_."

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Clark smiled. "So much for the rampant homoerotica that you always hear about in foreign boarding schools, huh?" _Oh, SHIT. _He couldn't _believe _he'd just said that. What _was _it about this kid that made him blurt out weird, sexual stuff? This was getting _uncomfortable._

Harry gaped at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. "I can't believe you just _said_ that," he gasped.

"Neither can I," Clark confided quietly, smiling just a little now that it seemed Harry hadn't taken him seriously. He knew how red his cheeks must be, and hunched his shoulders a little.

"I mean, you do this blank look really well, and you've got this whole innocent-as-a-puppy aura or whatever going on, and then you just go and blurt something like that?" He looked away, blushing. "You know something? I think you're a little bit crazy."

"Thanks," Clark responded bashfully. He cleared his throat a little. _Magic. But there **wasn't **any such thing as magic. Was there? What had Harry been talking about, otherwise? _"Harry," he said quietly. "I…I heard you on the phone, earlier. What did you mean about magic?"

Harry's head whipped round. "Oh, shit. You're a Muggle, aren't you? I knew it. Then how did you get me out of that tornado? I know you did it!" He stood up, pointing his wooden stick at Clark's chest.

"Harry, calm down" Clark instructed, holding his hands out placatingly. He looked down to see the strange rod Harry was holding. "You said you had your wand on the phone. Is that it? Your…magic wand?"

Harry's eyes were wide. "Maybe. How did you get me out of the tornado? What did you do?"

Clark shook his head, avoiding Harry's eyes. He _hated _lying, mostly because he suspected that he wasn't very good at it. "Harry, I think you must have hit your head. I didn't…do anything. I just took a risk, and I was lucky that things turned out all right."

"That's a load of bollocks," Harry answered, his eyes narrow. "Your arms were like iron bars wrapped around me. I felt that. You did something."

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Harry stepped away, lowering his wand. Clark was still shaking his head, trying to give him that 'I'm as innocent as a lamb' look and failing miserably. So he wanted to do this the hard way? Harry was good at rooting out other people's secrets. He backed up until he was under a shelf with a particularly large box overhanging the edge. "If you don't want to talk about it, that's okay," he said soothingly, and slipped his wand behind his back. He pointed it up at the box and muttered a spell. "I understand. We all have our secrets, I guess."

It seemed to take Clark a minute before he realized the box was teetering, tilting above Harry's head. His eyes got so wide that Harry almost found it comical. "Harry—!" he began, but Harry cut him off.

"No, that's all right, Clark," he said loudly. "You don't have to tell me the truth." As he was speaking, he kicked one foot back against the wall behind him. By the horrified look on Clark's face, he knew the box was about to fall. "Clark?" A rattling sound came from above.

There was splintering crash, and suddenly Harry was on the ground several feet away. He was wrapped in Clark's warm, strong arms, and there were bits of wood and broken glass still settling where the box had fallen. "Don't worry," Clark told him in a quiet, shaky voice when he saw Harry looking at the destruction. "I've got you."

Harry smirked. "Actually, Clark, I think _I _got _you,_ that time. I knew you weren't just a Muggle. How the hell did you get over to me and then get us both far enough away before the box landed?"

Clark gave him the beginnings of an angry look. "You mean that was a _trick_?" he demanded, his face a mask of betrayal. He rolled away from Harry and got to his feet.

Harry sighed and stood, brushing himself off. "Well, I guess that really wasn't very fair. I'll tell you what; now that I've seen yours, I'll let you see mine." He shot the farmboy a wicked smile. "They can always obliviate you later if they don't like it." He aimed his wand at the scattered shards of glass and said, "_Reparo_," watching smugly as Clark stared. The pieces sorted themselves out, melded back together, and became Martha's collection of glass holiday ornaments again. "Well, what do you think?"

Clark picked one up, turning it over in his hands. "No harm, no foul, huh? That was…that was awesome, actually. How the hell did you do that?"

Harry gave him the naughtiest grin he could muster. "Ah, ah, ah, Speedy. You get to go first." He flopped himself back down on the couch, as Clark glared at him suspiciously. "I'll tell you everything. I promise. But now you see that I have as much to lose as you do. So let's share, shall we?" He saw the nervousness in Clark's eyes and tried to smile reassuringly. "How about we start small and work our way up? You know, get to know each other. What's your favourite colour?"

"I don't know," he answered, his face thoughtful. He frowned. "Definitely not green, though. Anything but green." Clark sat beside him and reached over next to the couch, twisting open a bottle. Harry gave a questioning look, and Clark gave him a half smile. "It's just water. Lex left some here last time he was out. It's the expensive stuff. Want to try one?" He handed Harry a bottle.

"Sure." Harry took a sip. "This is expensive? How can you tell? It just tastes like water, to me." Clark shrugged, and Harry got a feeling he didn't know, either. Must be a rich person thing. Surreptitiously, Harry waved his wand over the mouth of the blue bottle.

Clark's head whipped around. "What are you doing?" He was eyeing the wand with distrust.

"It's all right," Harry responded, feeling like their rolls had been reversed, now that he was having to assure Clark. "I'm just trying something the twins taught me." He took a sip, making a face. "Oh, wow!"

Now Clark was interested. "What did you do?" he sniffed at the bottle. "It doesn't smell any different."

"No, but it sure _tastes _different. I can't believe that worked! I thought Fred was messing me about. Try a sip?" He offered Clark the drink.

Clark gave him a wary look, but tilted the bottle so that a little ran into his mouth. He immediately coughed a little, his face amused. "Jeez, Harry! That's _alcohol_!" He looked at the bottle, stunned. "It's really strong, too."

Harry grinned. "My mate Seamus has been trying to do that since first year. He should've just asked Fred and George—except that you never really know what a spell they tell you will really do. They told Ron once—he's their brother—that they knew a spell for keeping insects away, and instead it turned his skin green. Anyway, it _isn't _alcohol. Well, it _is. _It's still water, though. It's just alcoholic water."

Clark smiled. "So…what's _your_ favorite colour, then?" he asked, feeling a bit stupid.

Harry pondered this a moment, seeing Gryffindor red decorating the halls, and Ron's silly maroon shirts, and his own mother's eyes. Then he remembered the Slytherin decorations, and the flash of _Avada Kedavra_. "No wonder I always hated the Emerald City," he said under his breath. More loudly, he answered, "I'm not sure. But not green for me, either."

Clark sighed like he was trying to approach an uncomfortable subject. "You know magic, huh? This is…you really know _magic_? I mean, you've never been to Smallville, have you? Your parents weren't passing through here during a meteor shower or something like that? Wait. You would have been too young. Maybe your parents were passing through during the meteor shower and your mother drank some water with meteorites in it or something?"

Harry looked at him oddly. "_What _is your fascination with meteors? I mean, it's like an obsession or something. Anyhow, no, I don't think so. We were kind of in the middle of a war back in England when I was born, so I don't think my mum or dad had much time for vacationing in America. And they died only a year later."

"In the car crash?"

"In the war." Harry looked at his water, silent. "They were murdered."

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Clark stared. "What war?" Harry wasn't young enough for his parents to have been in any English war—but then, maybe his parents weren't English.

"It's…a long story. The war between the ones—like my parents—who resisted, and the purebloods and the others who followed this creepy chap who wants to take over the world and live forever, sort of thing."

"Lionel Luthor?" Clark quipped, and felt bad when he noticed the look in Harry's eyes. Harry's parents were dead because of this guy. Time to try to be a little more sensitive. "Oh." He looked at his bottle. "You want to try that spell on mine?"

Harry gave a ghost of a smile. "Sure, why not?"

The two sat silently for a long time, drinking their alcoholic water. "I'm sorry about your parents," Clark said quietly. Harry half-shrugged. Well. This was getting them nowhere fast. Should he mention his powers? It was a risk but…there was always going to be a risk, and Harry had shown him a lot. A _spell _for Pete's sake. An actual magic spell. "So…are there other people who can do magic? Like at your school?"

"I told you; _you go first._ I may not be the brightest bloke around, but even I can see you're slippery as a soapy fish. I'm _not _letting you get out of this. A box full of stuff almost fell on my head, and you were across the room in an _instant_. Stop being evasive and tell me what's going on." Harry gave him a hard look, and Clark took a big swig of water, forgetting himself.

After he'd finished coughing, Harry rolled his eyes and gave him a 'go on' look. Clark stared at his hands. "I…don't know where to start. I don't know if you'd even believe me if I told you." Stalling for time, he sucked another mouthful of water up, swirling it around in his mouth before swallowing. His eyes watered a bit, and he knitted his eyebrows together. "That stuff is _strong_." Harry didn't say anything, but Clark could see him from the corner of his eye, and his lips were pinched together, his eyes dark. "Fine. I—can do things. All right? I can do things that other people can't do. I'm not…I'm not human." He turned to look Harry full in the face. Even when people had seen his powers in the past, he usually didn't admit that. It was really frightening—he felt so exposed.

Harry looked confused. "What do you mean, 'not human?' That doesn't make any sense. Whatever you're able to do, you're a regular guy. Trust me. Have you looked in the mirror? Totally human. Totally hot, too—but still human. I mean, you're not inhumanly gorgeous or anything, no matter what the girls have told you." He gave Clark a tiny, flirtatious smile.

Clark felt the flush rise up his cheeks again, but didn't feel quite as panicked by that as he would have earlier. In fact, it was kind of…nice that Harry thought he was handsome. The only other person that ever said things like that was Pete, and he generally said it in such a bitter voice that it hurt to hear it. Harry wasn't envious. He was just attracted to Clark. It was odd how warm the idea of that made Clark feel. He cleared his throat a little. "I may look human, but I'm not. My parents were aliens. They sent me away from their planet to save my life. I landed here, in Smallville, and Jonathan and Martha Kent took me in and raised me as their own. But I'm still an alien, even though I look human. I can do things humans can't do. I can run faster than almost anyone, I can lift almost anything, and bullets can't hurt me." He let out a shaky breath. "There. I told you. I don't care if you don't believe me; maybe it would be better if you didn't."

Harry was staring at him with a strange expression. "I believe you," he said quietly. "You're too much of a crap liar when you try, for one thing." He took a sip of his own drink. "Wow. You're an _alien_? It…it _does _seem awfully hard to believe; but if you'd told me a few years ago that there was such a thing as magic, I'd have thought you were making _that _up, and I know it's true now." He leaned back on the couch, looking rather stunned. "Wow," he muttered again softly.

Clark looked down at his bottle of water, wishing he didn't feel quite so relieved. After all, he'd told other people before. And anyone who found out about his secret almost inevitably ended up obsessed with exposing him or going insane and trying to kill him or his friends. _The truth shall set you free, my **ass**_Clark thought, staring into the clear liquid. _And what **is **this stuff, anyway?_ Whatever it was, it was definitely having an effect on him. For one thing, he found that he really, _really _wanted to talk about all this. He wanted a confidant, and he wanted to know they wouldn't throw it back in his face about how _lucky _he was, and how no one ever noticed anyone else when Clark was around.

To his surprise, he found himself telling Harry all about Pete, and Chloe, and Lana, and how jealous Pete was, and how Chloe just had to know everything, and how he'd thought Lana was great until her boyfriend had died, and how was he supposed to replace a dead guy, when he couldn't even tell her the truth? The room seemed to be spinning a bit as he talked and talked, but that didn't matter, and Harry was a _great _audience. And in return, the boy told him all about his own life, and what utter rubbish he thought it was.

"Same here," he responded concerning Pete. "Ron is my best friend, and he keeps getting angry because I 'get all the attention' or something. I tell him, 'You want a crazy evil bloke trying to kill you, be my guest!' He doesn't _get it. _It isn't _fun_. You think I _want _people to stare at me all the time?"

Clark nodded vehemently. "You're preaching to the choir."

"And Hermione can't mind her own business for five _minutes_. 'Are you sure, Harry? This doesn't seem like a good idea, Harry. Don't you know what it means yet, Harry? You ought to be doing _research _on this, Harry.' It drives me _mad_. Can't she just leave well enough alone? She thinks answers will just fix everything. Well, I'm sorry, but sometimes knowledge doesn't help a damn bit."

"You're right," Clark asserted. "Just like Chloe and her never-ending search for The Truth. And what the hell will she do when she _gets _this 'truth,' anyhow? Print it in her stupid newspaper? Run around telling everyone she knows? Because knowing the truth sure as fuck won't _change _it, that's for sure." Clark started to blush, realizing how loud he'd been getting, even though Harry was only nodding sympathetically. "And don't even get me started on Lana."

"Lana was your girlfriend?"

"Not exactly. Whitney went and died, so sure, _now _she has time for me. Of course, she's a total wreck and wants all sorts of things that I can't give her—the truth being one of them. And I mean, all those years of thinking she was so fantastic, and you know something? You know something?" He turned to Harry, pointing an unsteady finger. "I don't think I _wannher _anymore. Um. Want. Her. I think. I think. I think I'd rather have Lex, is what I think." His shoulders slumped in sudden realization. "Not that Lex wants me, either."

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"How do you know that?" Harry questioned. "He might. He could. You ever ask him?" He stared at Clark, feeling a swell of sympathy. _Poor Farmboy. You've got it bad, don't you? Well, join the club._

Clark looked up in horror. "God, _no_. Lex would never look at me like that. Lex is—Lex is—Lex is…"

"Lex is _what_?" Harry broke in angrily. "Lex is rich, Lex is smart, Lex is…what, too freakin'_ good for you?_ That's what you were thinking, isn't it? Isn't it? Clark! Okay, maybe you're not wealthy, and maybe you've got Ma and Pa Kettle for parents, but you've got a lot going for you! You're _built_, you're nice, you're strong and, let's face it, you're downright _gorgeous. _With a face like that…I mean." Blushing brightly, Harry looked at his hands. The twins hadn't told him this stuff was going to knock him on his arse and make him act like a fool."Clark, Lex couldn't do better than you if he spent every last penny trying. You're …you're _great_. And I have a real hard time believing that Lex can't see that. You've never given him a chance, have you? It's not just that you don't give yourself enough credit, you don't give _Lex_ any credit, and that isn't fair."

Clark was smiling this goofy half smile, and Harry looked away, ducking his head. "What are you grinning at?"

"You," Clark replied. "You're kind of…neat, you know that? I like you. I don't think I've ever met anyone like you. The closest I've come was Alicia, and she turned out to be a complete freak."

"I'm a freak, too," Harry replied bitterly.

Clark frowned, reaching over and putting an arm round Harry's shoulders. "No, you're not. And your aunt is…your aunt is a real…she's a real witch for telling you things like that."

"Actually not," Harry replied, amused. "You've just insulted a lot of good witches with that remark."

Clark shook his head, "Huh?"

"That's what we call girls who can do magic. Witches. The males are wizards."

"That's just…surreal. Anyway," Clark continued, intent on having his say. "There's nothing wrong with you. You're fun, and you're smart—smarter than I am, anyway; you tricked me with that box thing—and you're brave, and you're really…pretty…cute," he finished, blinking a little.

Inside, Harry crowed. He gave Clark an arch look. "Lex better look out, because if I'm stuck here in Smallville for any length of time, I'm going to steal you right from under his nose."

Clark grinned slowly, but broadly—that ten million kilowatt smile that lit up the room. "Yeah…right. Anyway, I've never met anyone like you. Alicia turned out to be a psycho, and went and tried to kill Lana so we could 'be together.'"

"Sounds a bit like the fake Moody," Harry remarked, watching in awe as Clark raised the bottle to his lips. The water was getting low now, and the American threw his head back, his throat muscles working as he swallowed, his lips wrapped around the mouth of the bottle. Harry wished desperately that he had a blanket or a book or something to cover his lap. _So not good. Oh, Merlin. This is **so **not good, _he told himself. Looking away, he told Clark about what had happened his fourth year, trying hard not to feel the warmth of the arm across his shoulders. "And then they used me to basically raise Voldemort from the dead. Nice, huh? I mean, after the Draco thing, I thought he was really pretty cool."

"All that, and he turned out to be trying to get you killed?" Clark asked, his liquid eyes full of gentle understanding. Harry swallowed. "Gosh, that's _terrible_. I'm sorry, Harry. And I'm sorry about Cedric. I wish I'd been there. I wish I could have helped." He shook himself a little. "It's not your fault, though. You did everything you could. My dad always says you can't save everyone."

Harry smirked. "Sounds like I'm not the only one with a 'saving people thing.' They don't have stuff like that on career day, do they? 'Well, Professor McGonagall, I like getting out…seeing new things, new faces, and I really like helping people. And saving the world. Got any job descriptions that fit that?'" He snorted a bit. "Right. They already think I'm bleeding crazy. You can't _help _it though, can you? I mean, if you're the only one that can do something about it, you just go and _do _it. No one else will take responsibility."

"You're right," Clark said. "And it's not like anyone is ever grateful. Do you know how many times I've saved Chloe? Lex? Lana? Do they _ever _give me a break for it? Do they ever stop asking me to 'open up' 'share my secrets' or 'tell the whole truth?' It's exhausting, trying to be everything to everyone. But if I don't do it, people will die. And it will be _my fault_, because I knew and I didn't do anything."

"Mmmh," Harry hummed, leaning into Clark just a bit. Clark froze, and they were silent for a long moment. "So…what is it about this Lex guy that drives you so crazy, anyway?" Harry asked, looking up at him.

Clark shrugged a bit. "I don't know. He's just…he's just _different_, you know. My dad says he's spoiled, but he isn't like that at all. He really acts like he cares about me, and he wants to spend time with me. Plus, he's got a great sense of humor, and these great lips—this _smirk _that—" he broke off, cheeks rosy. "Um. He's just got—you know—_style_," he finished. "Boy, does he have style."

Harry was smiling up at him. "Yeah, I know what you mean." He thought back to Professor Snape, and the way the man could stalk the grounds with his black robes billowing out behind him, looking like God's wrath descended to Earth. Style. Lot's of it. And when he sneered at you, you stayed sneered at, by God. He had one hell of a sneer. Harry sighed. "You don't have to get all shy about it," he told Clark. "You're not the only one with a bit of an unrequited crush going on. Although, at the very least, you have a _chance _with Lex. Or you would, if you'd just grow some balls and say something to him about it."

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Clark's mouth fell open, and he wasn't certain if he should be incredibly offended by that or not. On the other hand, Harry's hair was tickling his chin, and his head was warm and solid against Clark's arm, and it was _awfully _nice to be curled up next to someone on a Saturday night, and not have them moaning at you about how you never open up, and if he _did _take offense, Harry might move his head, and Clark was pretty sure he didn't want that.

"So…who is _your_ mystery man that you're oh so sure you'd never have a chance with? Hmm? Let me guess; he's tall, dark, and handsome, he's…probably a bit older than you, since you seem to have a thing for older guys." He paused to wink at Harry. "He's really amazing, either totally popular, really rich, or he's on the wrong side of the law—or his parents hate you."

"Two out of three, on the tall, dark and handsome, although _I _kind of sort of think he's handsome," Harry responded. "He _is _older…quite a bit older, unfortunately…he's amazing in his own way, I guess, although more in the 'dress you down and insult you with words you couldn't spell, let alone understand' sort of way, he's incredibly unpopular, I have no idea whether he has a knut to his name, and he may or may not be on the wrong side. And his parents would _undoubtedly _hate me, although my problem is more that my dad hated him."

"Ah. Like my dad and Lex?" Clark said, wanting to turn the tables on Harry and tell him how he'd never given the poor man a chance.

Harry laughed. "More like your dad and Lex's dad, to tell you the truth," he said.

"You're in love with Lionel Luther? But that's disgusting," Clark teased, grinning at him. His smile faded slowly. "Wait. Are you telling me he's your dad's age?"

Harry's smile faded too. "Yeah. And my dad hated him. I'm not entirely sure why. They went to school together, and my dad treated him like…well, there really aren't words to describe it. It was awful. And now my dad's long dead, and he's a teacher at my school, and he loathes me more than anything else that ever existed, and thinks I'm just like my father."

Clark was about to say something about student-teacher relationships and what a bad idea they were, but he saw the way Harry was blinking rapidly and thought better. "That's not very fair," he said quietly. "I take it he doesn't know that you have a thing for him, huh?"

Harry smiled sadly. "What would be the point? So he could humiliate me in front of the whole school with it every chance he got? You weren't listening; he _hates _me. He'd probably like to fry me in oil and feed me to a bunch of seagulls. He probably wishes I was dead."

"Come on," Clark said, nudging him. "Don't you think that's a bit harsh?"

Harry looked up at him, and seemed to think this over. "I don't know. I guess there were times he could have let me die and didn't, so that's a good thing. He still acts like he'd rather see me stretched out on the rack, though."

"Well, maybe he's…maybe it would just take something kind of big to get him to see that you're not like your father. Maybe you need to prove it. And anyway, if he's so unpopular, I bet that he's pretty insecure, too. He probably lashes out because he doesn't want to take the chance that he likes someone who doesn't like him back."

"Thank you, Mister Psychologist," Harry replied. "It doesn't matter, anyway. The only person who's ever liked me like that was Ginny Weasley, and she seems to be pretty much over me now. The only time I ever kissed anyone was Cho, and she was crying over Cedric at the time, and it was just awful. My life sucks, you know that?" He took another drink. "My life really sucks."

Clark stared at Harry for a long moment, his eyelashes dark against his cheeks as he looked down, his lips pink and wet as he ran the tip of his tongue over them. Quickly, before he could change his mind, Clark leaned forward and pressed his own lips against that slick warmth. He felt Harry gasp, and then relax, tentatively tilting his head a bit, and deepening the kiss.

By the time Clark drew back, both boys were flushed and heated and looking at each other with wide, sparkling eyes.

"What was _that _for?" Harry asked him in a hoarse voice.

Clark gave a half shrug, feeling a little bewildered. "Because…because, because, because, becaaaause, because of the wonderful things he does," Clark muttered, snickering. Stupid alcoholic water. He sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Because I never do, even when I really want to. Because you looked sad, and I wanted…to make it better. Because I wanted to see what it felt like." Clark looked at his hands, running nervously over the glass of the bottle. "Because I like you, and your lips looked really soft, and I wanted to know what it would be like to touch them."

Harry stared at him. "Really? What…what _was _it like, then?" He seemed just a little worried, like he wasn't sure whether Clark had enjoyed it the way he had.

Clark swallowed. "It was…it was…really wow, Harry," he said shyly. "I mean, I was kind of scared at first that you didn't want me to, because you didn't do anything, but when you started to kiss me back, it felt incredible. Really incredible." He looked up from the bottle, unable to keep from devouring Harry with his eyes.

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Harry's eyes widened just a bit when Clark looked up, his own gaze dark with…lust? Harry shivered pleasantly. "Oh, my God. I'm melting because of your eyes, you know."

Clark clapped a hand over them. "I'm sorry!" he yelped. "I didn't mean to!"

Harry pulled his hand away from his face. "I didn't mean that _literally, _you dolt. Is that something else you can do?" Wordlessly, Clark nodded. He looked extremely embarrassed. Harry ran his hand up the other teen's face, sliding fingertips along his jaw. "You…you really liked it? Kissing me?" Clark nodded, no trace of a lie in his expression. One of Harry's fingertips found itself trailing over Clark's bottom lip. "Could we do it again? I mean, I didn't even know what you were doing until you were almost done, and—"

Warm lips descended on his again, and Harry let his arms wind round Clark's neck, digging his hands into the dark hair. He felt Clark's larger, squarer hand on his hip, drawing heated circles there, and he moaned softly. He felt Clark smile a little against his lips, and timidly slipped the tip of his tongue across the silken opening before him.

Now Clark moaned, giving Harry access to the wet, smooth heat of Clark's mouth. Another tongue rose to meet Harry's petting and writhing gently along its length. Nothing in Harry's life had ever felt so nice before, and he realized that he was straining against his zip. He whimpered quietly, and felt one of Clark's soothing hands come up to cup his face, thumb rubbing up and down his throat.

Clark broke away a bit, and they both took a moment to gasp for air. He gave Harry a long, smouldering look before bending forward again, pressing another kiss to Harry's lips, then the side of his mouth, then turning Harry's head and kissing just below Harry's ear and beginning to work his way down the boy's throat. "That feels okay, doesn't it?" he whispered in between kisses, and Harry reached around, running hands up and down Clark's broad back.

"Yes," he murmured, "Oh, yes. That's very nice."

Clark smiled shyly, pulling away once more before attacking Harry's mouth with vigour. Both boys groaned into the sloppy, enthusiastic kiss, and young, clumsy hands began clutching and stroking with passion, trying to find a balance between pleasurable rhythm and needy desire.

Harry shuddered when one of Clark's hands slipped under his shirt, palm pressed to Harry's stomach. He broke the kiss, panting a little, and dipped his head to dig his teeth lightly into Clark's neck. "Tell me to stop if it hurts," he muttered, and Clark laughed.

"You could be a vampire and not get through my skin," he told the boy. "Don't worry about it." He hummed in a blissful way when Harry bit down slightly harder, chewing and sucking at the smooth skin of Clark's throat. "Actually," he added in a husky voice, "I kind of like that. It tickles."

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Harry eventually pulled away, his eyes shining. "Take off your shirt," he suggested in a pleading tone.

Clark gave him a bit of an amazed smile. "You're fine with all of this, aren't you? I'm scared to death, and you don't mind any of it. You're really brave, you know that?"

Harry tilted his head, looking a little puzzled. "What's there to be afraid of? I'm certainly not afraid of you; I trust you. I like you, Clark. And…this is really excellent. I've never done anything like this before. And I…don't have to worry about you. If Voldemort comes after you, I mean. You're virtually indestructible. So if he somehow finds out about this—and I don't plan on telling anyone—I don't have to worry that he'll hurt you. That's a big comfort, you know?"

Clark stared at him for a long moment before starting to unbutton his shirt. "You're right. And I trust you." He let out a long breath, his heart thundering in his chest. "I haven't been able to say that to anyone in so long."

Harry drew his hands down Clark's chest, scraping his fingernails along the exposed skin. "You know, I've never met anyone like you before, either," he whispered, leaning forward and licking the same path one fingernail had taken. Clark arched into the touch, hand creeping around Harry's head and holding him close. Harry smiled against the firm pectoral before him. It didn't matter that he'd never done this before—he'd just do whatever felt good, whatever he wanted—and trust Clark to tell him if he didn't like it.

Clark didn't seem to mind. His hands crawled over Harry's back, pulling his shirt up and over Harry's shoulders. Harry reached up to make sure his glasses were still in place, only remembering after touching his face that he'd lost them. Then Clark's gesture echoed his own, fingers brushing Harry's cheek with something like reverence. They stared at each other a long moment, and then Clark pushed Harry back on the couch, smothering his mouth with a succession of heady kisses.

Clark's body covered Harry's, cradling and blanketing the smooth, warm frame. Clark was being very careful to be gentle, knowing that getting excited now could have unlooked-for consequences. He ran his hands over Harry's skin, something between a sweet caress and a frisky grope. Harry giggled when Clark reached his ribs.

Clark sat back on his heels a moment, that brilliant smile shining out again. "Ticklish, huh?" Fingertips dove back down, relentless in their quest to skim against Harry's sensitive skin. Harry squirmed and snickered, trying to shove Clark away, knowing that if Clark didn't want to be pushed off, there was really not much Harry could do about it. Finally the older teen let Harry have a rest, watching with a small smile and his tongue sticking between his teeth just a little, as Harry struggled to get his breath back to normal.

"You are an evil, evil man," Harry gasped, pinching Clark to let him know it was all in fun. Clark's eyes fell half shut at this and Harry, captivated, squeezed again. This time Clark cried out, and Harry knew, without a doubt, that it was not from pain or displeasure.

When Clark's eyes slid open all the way, they burned into Harry's with a cautious question. One large hand reached out, cupping Harry within the confines of his pants. "Is this all right?" he whispered.

Harry nodded, letting his head fall back against the cushions. The world went even hazier as his eyes refused to focus. "More, please," he groaned, and bit his lip when Clark increased the pressure against Harry's hardness, stroking him hungrily.

"I've never done this to anyone else," Clark admitted, anxiously watching Harry's face. "Never done anything like it. Tell me if I hurt you. Tell me if you don't like it," he urged.

Instead of answering, Harry thrust his hips upward, pushing himself into that warm palm. "I don't know if I'm going to be able to get out of these jeans without hurting something," he said with a slight smile. "I'm so hard I think the zip is embedded in my skin." His gentle laugh turned to ragged gasps when Clark carefully unbuttoned the fly, slid his hand a short ways into Harry's pants, and worked the zipper down with his other hand.

"That wasn't so tough," he said with a casualness that was belied by the flash of desire in his eyes. He slid the fabric down to Harry's ankles, working the pants off of one leg, then the other, tossing the English uniform onto the floor. Harry, now exposed save for a flimsy (and increasingly damp) pair of y-fronts, managed to let out a squeak when the other youth began working the underwear down, as well. Clark favoured him with another dazzling grin, which Harry returned as well as he was able. The older boy leaned over and kissed him. "You really are damn cute," he confided, and seemed to enjoy watching the red suffuse Harry's face.

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Boy, it was nice not to be the only one that had that happen. Clark gasped when a small, grasping hand reached up to rub him. "God. Harry. That's—God." Harry gave him an impish smile and worked Clark's pants loose pushing them down.

Harry giggled breathlessly. Trailing his fingertips up and down Harry asked, "Do you like that?" in such a sweet, teasing voice that Clark almost lost it right there. He gave Harry a squeeze and he twisted his hand up, eliciting a moan from the boy.

"I don't know, you little brat. Did _you _like _that_?" he responded with a wolfish smile. He lowered himself onto the boy lightly, grinding his hips. Harry's eyes fluttered shut, his own body striving up against Clark. Working his hand between them, Clark curled his fingers around both of them, squeezing lightly.

Harry made a mewling sound, rolling his hips. Both of his hands wrapped around Clark's, urging it to move. Clark slid his hand out from both of Harry's, letting the English boy do all the work. Pressing himself against Harry, he looked down on the other youth's face, head thrown to the side, teeth digging into the full lower lip. "Oh, my God," Clark gasped.

Harry's body undulated beneath him, and Clark became aware that they were both slick with sweat. The sheen on Harry's skin cried out to be tasted, and Clark lowered his head, lapping at Harry's chest, neck, the shell of his ear. "Clark, oh Clark," Harry whimpered. Clark tangled his hand in the youth's hair, tilting his head up for another kiss. Two pairs of deep green eyes met, and Clark dipped his head, thrusting his tongue into Harry's mouth.

Harry's tongue danced playfully with his own, and Clark let out a groan as they struggled and slid against each other. Crying out into Harry's mouth, Clark's hips snapped once more as he found utter bliss.

Clark pulled back, looking down at the still aroused youth, his hair wild and wanton, his lips pink and parted from their kisses. "Is it my turn yet?" Harry asked, raising a brow.

Clark shooed his hand away, touching Harry slowly, enjoying the play of pleasure across the boy's face. "You like that?" he enquired softly. "Tell me. Tell me how much you like that," he urged.

Harry twisted, digging his heels into the sofa, arching his back. "I love it, Clark. Oh, yes. Oh, I love it, yes." Clark began working his hand more quickly. Looking up at Harry's face with a mischievous smile, he lowered his head slowly. Harry's body shuddered violently, his eyes opening wide. He stared down at Clark, open mouthed, as Clark lowered his head again, hand still working. "Oh—my—my—_fuckingholyhell_," Harry ground out.

Clark drew back, grabbing his shirt and wiping his face with the cloth. "You could _warn _a guy next time," he said, grinning down at Harry, who was sprawled catlike across the couch, one elegant leg curled up and over the back.

"Sorry," Harry said sleepily. "_God_, Clark, that was _brilliant_. That was better than _flying._" Clark ran a wondering hand over Harry's face, a mottled flush still infusing his cheeks, neck, and chest, his eyes dark and heavy, the very image of debauched youth. He leaned down and kissed the boy again.

Clark gave a shaky laugh. "Yeah, I guess it was. Not that I've ever flown, but I did have this one dream…sort of. This was better than that, anyhow. Thanks, Harry. That was…that really _was _brilliant."

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Harry's eyes flew open. "You're thanking _me_? You did most of the work." He splayed his hands across Clark's chest, enjoying the play of muscle beneath sweaty skin.

Clark smiled sheepishly. "Hey, _you_ were the one who did the actual work. All I really did was enjoy it." Even talking about it, Clark was turning pink again, and Harry had to laugh.

"I'm glad you're not different," he confessed. "I'm glad you're not suddenly jaded or smug. You really are pretty wonderful, Clark. I'm really glad I met you." He reached for his wand, exercising the cleaning spell that every magically-endowed, post-pubescent boy knew so well.

Clark pulled Harry into a quick embrace, nuzzling his neck. "Same to you, Harry," he murmured. Harry grinned into Clark's hair, twining his legs around the older boy's. It was just one night, but he intended to enjoy every minute of it, and so thinking, worked himself onto his side, soaking up Clark's warmth.

"You going to tell Lex how you feel?" he asked, petting the back of Clark's head.

Clark seemed to think this over a while, before murmuring, "I think maybe I will." Harry smiled broadly. Maybe it was his 'saving people thing,' but he liked to think he'd made a change for the better in the other boy's life. "You going to show that guy you like that you're not your father?" Clark asked in response.

Harry pondered that as Clark's breaths grew deeper and longer into his ear. "We'll see," he eventually replied, no longer fighting to keep his eyes open. "We'll just have to see."

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The next morning, the two were woken by Martha's voice calling from the bottom of the ladder, saying someone had come to claim Harry. They quickly untangled themselves, throwing their clothes on.

"We'll be down in a minute, Mom!" Clark called frantically, almost falling over as he jabbed a leg into his pants. "Aw, _crap_," he muttered a minute later. "Almost put my underwear on the outside again."

Harry giggled. "You'd look good wearing your underwear on the outside. And with my red cape, too." Then he noticed the state of his own clothing. "I can't wear these," Harry moaned, holding up his underwear. "I didn't think to clean them last night."

"Hurry up, Mister Potter," a cold voice floated from below. "I haven't all day to mollycoddle you."

"Oh, _shit_," he mouthed quietly at Clark. "That's _him_." Stuffing his underwear into his pocket, Harry frantically tried to get his shirt right side out. "You know what? Keep the Quidditch cloak, all right? To remember me by, and since you liked it so much."

Clark nodded slowly, his face pensive. "It'll be all right, Harry," Clark said, smiling brightly. "Why don't I go stall for time while you get ready?" Harry nodded distractedly, and Clark bounded down the ladder with more energy than he'd had in weeks.

A tall, stringy-looking man with a hooked nose stood imperiously nearby, scowling at Clark's mother as though she might attempt to garrotte him if he turned his back. He was dressed all in black, with freshly pressed slacks and a turtleneck, although it was already a very warm day.

"Hi," Clark said cheerfully, grabbing up the man's hand and shaking it roughly. "You must be Harry's teacher. I'm Clark. Clark Kent. Everything's okay here, Mom. Why don't you go back in the house, and I'll join you in a minute?" She nodded, still glancing worriedly at the odd man. As soon as she passed the threshold of the barn door, Clark used his superior strength to give a yank on the man's hand, tugging him forward.

He was nearly jerked over, and let out an undignified squawk. "Just—what the devil do you think you're doing—you vicious little yokel?" the greasy man demanded.

"I'm a friend of Harry's," Clark began, and the man glared at him.

"Isn't _everyone_?" he muttered sarcastically.

"Look, I'm only going to say this once; don't you dare hurt him. He's a really sweet kid, and he deserves someone that cares about him. If you don't care about him, then—"

"Do enlighten me as to why I might have come halfway clear around the world to collect him if I didn't!" the man snarled, trying to get his hand free of Clark's grip.

"I'm just saying that if you _don't_, at least don't hurt him. Because if you hurt him, I'm going to hurt you back." He didn't use his powers in any form; he didn't have to. He made sure the man knew that he was telling the truth, just by looking into his eyes.

"I'm here! I'm ready. Sorry, Professor," Harry gasped, slightly out of breath, nearly tumbling down the ladder. "I've got everything, I think. Um. How do we…where do we go from here, exactly?"

The man's eyes darted from Clark back to Harry. "There is a…friend of the Headmaster's with a house in Kansas City. We'll be…travelling there, and she will assist us in returning to the school."

Glancing outside, Clark saw a merry old woman sitting in the front seat of a beat up old Chevy, chatting with Clark's dad as the truck idled. A scruffy dog sat beside her, and she was wearing a large, violently purple hat, and Clark blinked.

"Ohhh-kay," Harry sighed. "Can I have a second with Clark, please?"

The man looked extremely put upon, but nodded stiffly, whirling and stalking out the door. Clark raised his eyebrows. "He's got…presence," he said diplomatically.

Harry just laughed. "He doesn't seem like much, I know, but he just…_does _it for me. And did you hear his voice? I hear that voice in my filthiest dreams, I swear. Anyway," he shifted his weight, looking suddenly shy. "I just wanted to thank you for everything. Saving my life, and last night, and just…everything."

Clark smiled, glancing outside to make certain no one was near. He bent his head to trap Harry's lips, and the boy's arms slid around his shoulders one last time. "You're welcome," he said, when they finally broke apart. He ran a hand over Harry's cheeks, looking down into those bottle green eyes for perhaps the last time. "You know, I don't hate the colour green as much as I used to?" he said, thinking that even kryptonite couldn't take away from the joy he'd taken from the glow in Harry's eyes. "And thank _you_. Good luck with landing that guy," he added, nodding at the stark figure that graced the sunny lawn.

Harry grinned, moving to join the man. "Thanks. Have fun with Lex. I wish I could have met him." They crossed the lawn and headed for the truck, where the man sourly gestured for Harry to climb into the bed. "And hey, Clark, if you're ever in England, try to look me up! I'll…" he glanced at the man and leaned over to whisper. "I'll send you an owl sometime. Just take the note it brings and give it some food and water. That's how wizards communicate." He grinned and clambered into the truck, waving happily. The greasy haired man climbed up beside him, settling down in the hay near the cab.

Giving Harry a thumbs up, Clark paused as a silver Porsche pulled up alongside the truck. "Lex!" he choked out in surprise. He got a glimpse of Harry leaning over, eyeing Lex as he stood up, regally adjusting his suit. Harry gave him a grin and a wink in return, and the old truck lumbered out of the drive.

Lex wandered over to Clark, as Clark's dad reminded him not to talk to his friend too long; they had chores, in bed half the day, be careful, yadda, yadda, yadda. He shook his head, gracing Lex with an embarrassed smile.

"Who was that?" Lex asked, hand waving to encompass the receding truck.

"A friend," Clark replied sadly, surprised at the sudden aching loss in his chest. He'd barely had time to get to know Harry. "A friend I just got the chance to know, and now I'll probably never see him again."

Lex looked at him curiously, his eyes warm as ever. His eyes were always warm. Why hadn't Clark ever noticed that before? "I'm sorry to hear that," the man said, hands in his pockets. You know, someone once said, 'Good friends are like stars...you don't always see them, but you know they are always there.' I'm sure he'll still call himself your friend, and I'm even more certain that he's happy to have met you."

Clark put his arms around Lex, drawing him closer. "You're a good friend, too, Lex," he said, and pulled away enough to give him a luminous smile. "I haven't been a very good friend lately. I know I haven't come around enough. I've missed you."

Lex laughed, making a self-depreciating gesture as Clark let go. Clark was pleased to see that Lex's cheeks were slightly tinged with pink, and his smile held none of its usual wary cynicism. "Well, I appreciate the sentiment, Clark, I really do; but what brought that on, exactly? The Clark I know is normally…a bit more guarded than this."

Clark nodded, scuffing his shoes in the dirt. "I know. But…if you don't take risks, you don't get anything out of it, do you?" He looked into Lex's kind eyes, feeling his stomach do flip flops. "Lex…what would you do if I told you that I liked you?"

Lex raised his eyebrows, not following. "I'd assure you that I liked you as well, I suppose. Hypothetically, since by that hug you obviously don't like me at all." He gave Clark an encouraging smile, waiting patiently.

Clark smiled, his face heating up. "No…I meant…God, I feel like a ditzy seventh grade girl. This isn't how it's supposed to go. Lex…I _do_ like you. You're clever, and you're nice, and you're always there when I need you." He broke off, pausing for a long moment. "But what would you say if I told you that I was attracted to you? That I—I'd like to kiss you?"

The smile that lit Lex's face could have rivalled any one of Clark's. He pulled his hands from his pockets, placing one on Clark's shoulder, and the other on his cheek. Looking about to make certain Jonathan had gone into the barn and Martha had returned to the house, Lex looked back at Clark, eyes soft. "Theoretically? I'd ask what took you so long to notice?" Clark's smile was nearly blinding, and Lex laughed. "I mean, I've bought you cars, saved your life, let you save mine…took you long enough to figure it out. I was beginning to worry that you didn't even notice my flirting. How many deranged psychopaths does a guy have to marry before he gets any attention, huh? How many times does he have to be nearly killed before he deserves a bit of sympathy?"

Clark shook his head, pressing his lips lightly against his friend's. "Next time," he whispered, "You could just ask." He revelled in the feel of Lex's lips parting beneath his own. He hoped Harry would send an owl soon. For the first time in a long time, he wanted to brag about something. He wondered how Harry was getting on in his own quest.

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Harry bit his lip, watching the Potions Master from the corner of his eye. "Why are you back here with me, instead of riding inside?" he finally got up the courage to ask. "Sir?"

The man shot him his most incinerating glare. "Because _Wuffles _is apparently of far greater import to that senile old bat that's driving than your distinguished Professor, that's why. And don't ask impertinent questions," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"Um. Does that mean I can't ask how I got here? Sir?"

The Potions Master's eyes narrowed dangerously. After a few moments, he finally sighed and gave in. "Someone put a spell on the Snitch to transport you to Voldemort. They didn't do a competent job, obviously." Harry didn't say anything, so Snape finally continued. "I suspect Malfoy. You should have noticed that he wasn't even _attempting _to catch the Snitch, and stayed clear of it yourself. Instead, your arrogance caused you to assume you were vastly superior, and smugly grab at it the first chance you got—absolute idiot that you are."

"Why didn't _you _notice something was wrong, Sir?" Harry shot back.

"I _did,_" the man responded flatly. "I noticed straight away that Malfoy was behaving oddly. However, I couldn't very well leap to my feet and scream, 'Don't touch the Snitch!' could I? I _did _cast _Accio _on you, but the magical field within the whirlwind interfered. There was nothing I could do." He was clenching his fists tightly, and his shoulders were tense. He jumped a little when Harry laid a hand on one.

"Sorry…Sir. I know you tried. You wouldn't let anything happen to me."

Snape gave him a suspicious glance, but refrained from doing more than grunting.

Harry fell silent, but noticed the man shooting him odd looks. "What is it…Sir?" he shifted in his seat a little, worried that some evidence of his previous night was giving him away.

"You've lost your glasses," Snape finally said in response. He looked away. "We'll have to get you another pair."

Harry shrugged. "At this point, I'd rather get some underwear first. I'm not wearing any, and it's really uncomfortable." Snape's head whipped round, and his eyes were very wide as he gaped at Harry. Harry merely smiled. "I heard what you said about me," he added. "That you cared about me? You can't take it back, you know." He held up his hands, trying to appease the man, whose face was collapsing into a look of extreme ill humour. "Don't get all upset. I _like _knowing that you care. Thank you."

A dark red seemed to be crawling across Severus's cheeks, and he hunched his shoulders a little, trying to scoot away from Harry. "Don't let it go to your head, you brash little brat," he responded, but the words didn't have the venom Harry was used to.

Harry watched him for a long time, waiting for those shoulders to relax a little. "I'm not my father, you know," he finally pointed out quietly.

Severus's eyes darted to his, one brow raised haughtily. "Congratulations on your flawless grasp of genealogy," he retorted.

Harry grabbed hold of the man's leg, levering himself up to press a quick kiss against those thin lips. "I like you," he said. "I know you don't like me, and I'll change that if I can, because I really like you a lot." Snape was staring at him again, looking far beyond shocked. "So you'd better brace yourself, because I'm setting out to—setting out to _court _you, and win you over." He gave the man one last smile, and wriggled down in the hay to get comfortable. "I'm going to start sending you flowers every day."

In a faraway voice, he heard Severus respond, "But I don't _like _flowers," sounding something between plaintive and perplexed. "I like rare herbs and other potions ingredients."

Harry smiled indulgently. "Duly noted. Do me up a list, so I don't make too big a hash of it, would you?"

"Well. Well. Fine," the man finally spluttered. "But I'll have you know, you've got your work cut out for you. And you've a lot of ground to make up, considering what you've put me through over the last couple of years. Don't think I won't take full advantage, either. I don't sleep with my students, and I don't care _how _above the rules you think you are."

Harry opened an eye, looking up at the man, whose normally sallow face was slightly flushed and adorned with a budding smirk. "I can wait," he assured the man. "I'll just pretend I'm a Slytherin, and bide my time."

Severus snorted. "A Slytherin wouldn't do that," he said. "Unless he had no other recourse. He'd be more likely to find a cunning way round the rules, intent on having his way."

"Wow. So in other words, you're pretty blatantly saying you want me to seduce you?" Harry grinned widely at this.

Severus shot him a look. "I said no such thing!"

Harry unsuccessfully fought the smile. "You know, I think this is going to be fun!" He ignored Snape's self-pitying groan. He hoped Clark was having as much luck as he was. He couldn't wait to get home to Hedwig. If he didn't get a chance to tell someone about this soon, he thought he might burst with excitement. What a super weekend.


End file.
